


Beneath the Table

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 22:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14271312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: In a regulated staff meeting, all of the screws congregate. Governor and Deputy sit side by side. The Governor seeks to reward her Deputy.





	Beneath the Table

Into the boarding room, screws congregate. Around the elongated table, screws cluster. Officers swarm into the room. Each suit takes a seat. Miss Bennett sits where she belongs as Governor Ferguson’s red right hand. She sits beside her, close enough to feel the crackling warmth of another body.

The Governor preaches efficiency. A group meeting enables Miss Ferguson to identify the loose ends and weak links

Joan’s hawk-eyed stare ventures around the room. Calmly, she observes the target audience. She feels not one shred of sympathy for them. They’re but a cog to keep the well-oiled machine moving on, moving forward.

Her black, unblinking eyes survey the puppets she cares little for.

The Governor’s knee knocked gently against her loyal disciple’s.

“Hard work and perseverance enable a strong, functional rapport,” she croons in that velvety timbre.

At the delicious friction, Vera gasps. Beneath the table, she feels a firm, strong hand spider along her toned thigh. How brittle the bones, how easy it would be to snap them in two. She does none of this. Instead, Joan savors; she feels, she practices an instrument known to be human flesh. The woolen fabric of Vera's skirt slithers upward. Aware of the game, she tries not to gasp. Joan gives the muscle a hearty squeeze. Akin to a nervous animal, she chews on the inside of her cheek. Heated, sweat beads along the nape of her neck. Loose, stray curls cling to her temples. From the odd hour in the afternoon, her bun has become frizzy. She swallows. Hyper-aware, she chooses to focus on Joan Ferguson’s speech. Her monologue that cuts down slackers and separates the strays from the pack. Vera admires how the woman conducts herself like a modern Caesar.

How she wishes she could be that **bold**.

“Not another paycut,” Fletch presumes while grumbling, offering up a defiant shrug to the table.

He positions himself at the opposite end, a contender to assist in the tension between the two.

Claws sink into the taut muscle of Vera’s upper thigh. Her nails graze. They leave an angry, red mark. A welt that will heal within a few days. She stiffens. She swallows the tight lump in her throat. 

“Mr. Fletcher, it would pay for you to listen rather than presume,” the Governor coolly resorts.

Contemptuously, Fletch snorts. With his shoulders hunched, he acts like a petulant child. Vera feels the tension despite the stiffness riddling her body.

The meeting drones on and it’s the Governor’s duty to _deliver_.

A doe of a woman finds herself wondering, her mind wandering: _Would she? Would she dare?_

Vera’s breath hitches. She disguises the sound by shuffling the stack of papers before her. At the noise, Joan’s nostrils flare. Dexterous fingers brush against nylon stockings. Frustrated by this flimsy barrier, Joan punctures them with a filed nail. In her seat, the mouse squirms. 

Provocation compels a knee-jerk reaction. Instinctively, her thighs clench and catch the sturdy arm between them. In retaliation, Joan digs her manicured nails into bare skin. Her loyal lamb raises her hips, shocked by the stab of pain followed by the warmth of pleasure.

Horribly bored, Miles sneaks a glance at her wristwatch. Time ticks. The clock on the clammy, brick wall hums. 

Akin to a serpent, Joan flicks out her tongue to wet her lips. It’s a minute gesture, one barely visible to the congregation of screws. Meanwhile, Vera’s knees buckle. Twitchy, little thing faults it on nerves. 

“To compensate for the recent adjustment of budget cuts, the staff rotary advocates for working double shifts,” the Governor drones on.

The grand maestro composes her lethal song.

Greeted by the texture of satin, Joan quirks a brow. Her fingers breeze across the bridge of her panties. Already, she feels the telltale dampness of arousal. _My, my._ Her deputy is full of surprises.

Dexterous fingers creep beneath the barrier of fabric. She wishes to remove them entirely: to pocket them for safekeeping. Another time, another midnight decision. Cruelly, she teases and rungs her fingertips along the wetness that collects between her legs – past the dampened curled. Self-restraint allows for God incarnate to hide her smirk.

It feels like torture. It feels like ecstasy. 

A lamb clenches her jaw. The muscles in her throat grow tense. Her veins throb. This is how it feels to burn at the fucking stake.

At the prospect of working a double shift without reprieve, a few groans resonate from the crowd. Vera struggles to mask her own though it’s issued for an entirely different reason. She doesn’t mind the work or the pay, especially if this is the reward to be reaped.

Firm and adamant, Joan drives home the purpose of this meeting.

But none of it really seems to matter.

Vera can't concentrate on basic protocol. Not now. Perhaps she's never fit to run this prison. She's not a well-oiled, unfeeling machine. Her heart's pinned to her sleeve and she's fairly certain her face gives away this sworn secrecy.

Despite her busy hands, Joan speaks confidently. She clicks her T’s, as if she’s sharpening a knife fresh for the slaughter.

“Don’T disappoinT.”

A finger curls deep inside her Deputy, sure and precise. Then, two. She works herself inside slowly. Her thrusts are methodical, purposeful. Dripping, Vera attempts to relax. She clenches around Joan, warm velvet ripe for the taking. Ever eager to please, she parts her muscular thighs to lure her deep inside. Warmth pools in her belly, burning like perdition. Beneath the table, she practically rides her superior’s wrist. White-knuckled, she grips the folder in front of her. Beneath her collar, a fire fans across. Her tie promises to strangle her.

Will shoots her a concerned look despite her sad eyes, red eyes, looking as glassy as ever.

She offers up a nervous smile, small and quivering. Her teeth graze her chapped, bottom lip.

“Any questions?” Joan inquires.

A unified grumble concludes the meeting.

Against heated flesh, the metal wristband of Joan’s watch threatens to leave a mark. Vera vehemently shakes her head. Compliance pleases the great lioness who bides her time.

“ _Good_.”

From the pleased inflection that tinges Joan’s tone, Vera knows – knows deep in her own twisted soul (how else could she survive?) – that the praise is intended for **her**.

**Author's Note:**

> In regards to Vera's stockings ripping so easily, nylons are susceptible to punctures and fraying... My own do that all the damn time which makes it plausible!


End file.
